Comanche Moon Falling

by Drew McGunn

  That evening, crowded in Will’s office, he was joined by President Crockett, Lt. Colonel Johnston, Majors McCulloch and Wyatt, Captain Seguin and Captains Hays and Wallace of the Rangers. Crockett sat in Will’s chair and looked over the reports collected by the officers who were present. “Tarnation, Buck. But damned if this fight isn’t something they’ll build monuments about in a hundred years.”

  He picked up a report and read, “A hundred and seventeen confirmed Comanche Killed. Forty-three more wounded were captured. God knows how many of their dead and wounded they escaped with. Hell’s bells, men, they ain’t been whipped this bad even by that governor from Santa Fe, who whipped them all those years back.”

  Captain Hays, the youngest man in the room by a half dozen years, spoke up cautiously, “Mr. President, me and Bigfoot, I mean, Captain Wallace here, have our Rangers following behind ‘em and it looks like they could have another two hundred wounded and dead they done escaped with, sir.”

  As Crockett smiled expansively at Hays’ words, Will shuffled through the various reports on the table until he found the one he sought. “Here’s the report on our own casualties, sir.” Will handed it over to Crockett. “Our regulars did very well. Most of our dead came from Lieutenant Esparza’s platoon, this side of the Guadeloupe River. All told, thirty-one regulars were killed and another thirty wounded. Unfortunately, our militia forces suffered heavy losses, when some of the Comanche attacked San Antonio. Fortunately, Major McCulloch’s forces held them at the northern edge of town, but at the cost of twenty-eight killed and forty-nine wounded.”

  The men standing around the table were silent as each remembered those counted among the dead, whom they knew. Will finally broke the silence. “It’s likely true, we probably killed or wounded over three hundred Comanche warriors in today’s fight. But before we break out the jugs and celebrate, let’s not lose sight of the fact we suffered nearly a hundred and forty casualties, too. Not even during Santa Anna’s misbegotten invasion last year did we lose so many.”

  Somberly, Crockett stood and said, “General Travis, I agree with you. Our casualties are only light when compared against those suffered by the Comanche. You and your officers did all that was asked of you by me and Congress. I’ll be sending my own full report to Congress on this campaign and I know they’ll be thankful for what you boys have done.” He paused for a moment, and it looked like he swallowed something unpleasant, as he turned to Major McCulloch, “I got my start in politics commanding militia, just like you did, Ben. For years I always thought we could call up the militia and raise an army whenever we needed. Our fights against Santa Anna last year didn’t do anything to change my mind. But now, damned if I think the same thing anymore. Buck here, I mean, General Travis, has been bending my ear ever since we sent that puffed up Jackanapes back to Mexico about the need for a more robust militia. After this, I think it’s time to do something about it.”

  He picked up another piece of paper from the table up, “Ben, I know you asked for a command of a Ranger company, and honestly, I’ve got all the Ranger captains I need right now.” He nodded toward Hays and Wallace. “But what I don’t have is someone who can turn our militia into a real army at need. Well, except you. I expect I can force this through Congress, Ben, I’m going to appoint you General of the Texas Guard. Rusk will continue to command the militia, but between his unorganized militia companies and Travis’ regulars, I want something betwixt and between the two. I’ll smooth Tom Rusk’s feathers. You’ll report to General Travis, here, just as he reports to me. He’s developed some smart new tactics. He took what we did against the Mexican army and improved on it against the Comanche. Take that training manual I know he’s been working on and give Texas a guard that can stand with its regulars.”

  Chapter 13

  After the meeting, Will returned to the battlefield, east of the Alamo. The Texians’ wounded and dead had been removed from the field. Across the prairie dozens of horses remained where they had fallen. Gruesome work remained to remove the dead animals. Some of the Comanche dead were still strewn on the battlefield, where they had fallen. Others, perhaps a few dozen, had been tossed together in a pile, within view of the prison camp. The women inside the camp were visibly distraught over the bodies of the warriors so near.

  He wasn’t sure who was overseeing the cleanup of the battlefield. Will had left it to Johnston to delegate. He found a soldier loading an assortment of weapons into a small handcart and strode over to him. “Who’s in charge of the burial details, Private?”

  When the soldier saw Will, his eyes flew to the stars on his shoulder boards. He dropped the spears he had been carrying and saluted. “Sir, Lieutenant Davis is in command. Last I saw of him, he was over by the corral. I think he was talking with one of the officers from the Marines.” The company of Marines, which Crockett had brought with him, were guarding the prison camp. Will found the infantry lieutenant talking with his counterpart from the Marines.

  The Marines wore blue uniforms, sourced from the same suppliers which provided the United States Marines their uniforms. Rather than buttons with eagles and anchors, the buttons on the Marine lieutenant’s uniform gleamed with a large star, behind which was fixed an anchor. The infantry lieutenant, wearing his worn, butternut uniform, stopped talking when he saw Will approach. Both young men snapped to attention and saluted.

  “As you were. Lieutenant Davis, how long until you’re finished with the cleanup?”

  The young officer said, “I’ve sent for some wagons from town sir. We’ve got to butcher some of the horses, before we can get them cleared off. I’ve collected the Comanche dead over there.” He pointed to the pile of bodies. “Once the boys are finished collecting them, I was going to burn them.”

  Will’s first thought dredged up a memory from his own past, before the transference. He was in high school. It was spring break and his parents had taken him to San Antonio. They had toured the Mission Trail and had finished at the Cathedral of San Fernando. In the cathedral’s vestibule, a large marble sarcophagus purportedly held the cremated remains of the Alamo defenders. His second thought was to knock the young officer to the ground. He wasn’t about follow in the footsteps of Santa Anna by burning the bodies of fallen foes.

  Will took a deep breath. He’d already fought one duel because of his temper. He’d be damned if he would allow his temper to get the better of him now. After slowly exhaling and wrestling his temper back under his control, he said, “Lieutenant, take a look at those folks behind the corral fence. Now imagine they aren’t wild and savage Comanche women and old men. But instead are the folks you grew up with. Now, how do you think they’d feel about seeing the bodies of their loved ones piled a couple of hundred feet away?”

  Davis looked toward the pile of bodies and then back toward the imprisoned Comanche. “But, General, sir, they’re just Indians.”

  The young officer was about to continue as Will cut him off. “What about you, Lieutenant? What does it make you?” Will pointed to the women behind the fence, “Never mind about them. What does it say about us if we casually burn their bodies. In front of their women. Is that a story you’d want your folks to read about in the newspaper?”

  A light came on behind Davis’ eyes as they grew large. “Ah, I didn’t think about it like that. No, sir. I don’t recon I’d like my folks reading about that.”

  Will glanced between the prisoners and the pile of the dead. “I don’t really care how you think of the Comanche. There’s much I admire in their fierce warrior spirit and their determination to protect what they see to be theirs. But the way we treat their dead says absolutely nothing about them, and everything about us. I’m not asking you, Lieutenant, to treat their bodies with any compassion out of respect for them, but out of your own decency.”

  Nodding, Davis said, “I see your point, sir. What do you want me to with them?”

  “Bury them. A common grave is fine. But do it away from the corral.”

  The next day,
the Protestant soldiers who died in the battle were laid to rest in a new cemetery, east of the fort. President Crockett had signed an order creating Texas’ first national cemetery for the men who died serving under the Republic’s flag. A single ceremony was held for the thirty men buried there. It was conducted by the 1st Texas Infantry’s Methodist chaplain and a Baptist preacher, serving with McCulloch’s militia. The ceremony’s simplicity was in its brevity. The Baptist preacher read from the epistle of John 15:13, “For this corruptible must put on incorruption, and this mortal must put on immortality.” He closed his Bible, and looked around at the soldiers gathered around, “These men we bury today are gone from among us, they now stand before the throne of the Almighty. Each of us should look to their example, as Jesus said, ‘Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.’ Those who knew these men well, I trust will take comfort in this, that each man did his duty to God, Texas and his comrades.”

  After the end of the service, Will hurried back to the Alamo, where he collected his horse and, along with Lt. Colonel Johnston, rode into town, in time to attend the Catholic service, held in the cemetery of the Church of San Fernando, near the square. As they rode out of the Alamo, deep in their own solitude, Will’s thoughts went to the brief words from the preacher. Even before, during his time in the Army and then the National Guard, chaplains reminded their flocks God was on their side. He was sure the medicine men among the Comanche promised the war bands the Great Spirit was on their side. As long as men rode to war, they claimed the mantle of God.

  Since first joining the army after 9/11, his interest in church had waned. While the transference into Travis’ body led him to think about what caused him to be flung into the past, it was taking responsibility for raising Charlie which had brought him back to his Methodist roots. When he had taken the boy in, they began attending the small Methodist congregation in San Antonio. He wasn’t sure if it was because of his renewed faith or despite it, but Will decided God was less interested in the affairs of nations than in the condition of the human heart. It left him no closer to explaining why God would transfer his mind and thoughts into William B. Travis, but he’d long ago given up rationalizing that thought.

  The service at San Fernando, while very different from the one earlier, with the priest intoning in Latin, Will was still struck by the similarities. The sixteen caskets were already in the ground, mounds of dirt to the side of each grave. A majority of those in attendance were Tejano, but the diversity of the crowd of soldiers reflected the diverse composition of the Texian army. Irish and German-born soldiers were mixed in among the Tejanos, as the men from Gregorio Esparza’s cavalry platoon were laid to rest. Scratching below the surface, Will found no fundamental difference between the Catholic service or the Protestant service he watched earlier. Sure, the Latin rites spoken were different than the preacher’s words, but their intent was the same; to give those who remain the opportunity to say goodbye to those who had died. At the heart of the matter, Will realized, they said the same thing.

  ***

  Spirit Talker rode beside Buffalo Hump. Both men had journeyed the last few hours in silence. Behind them came the remnants of their war band. Like a wet blanket, defeat lay heavy upon the warriors. As he glanced over at the war leader, Spirit Talker could scarcely imagine at the turn of events which had led to the People suffering their worst defeat in memory. Before they had ridden from the Comancheria, he had tried to warn Buffalo Hump of the inherent risk of an attack on the Texian fortress in Bexar. But Buffalo Hump had stubbornly refused to listen, and had told him, “Our warriors demand blood for the attacks by the Texians. They are old women, hiding behind their walls. Our warriors are brave and fearless. We shall ride into their town, with all our bands. Once we free our people held by those cowards, we shall loot and kill those we find in their town.”

  He shook his head at the memory. Buffalo Hump turned and said, “You were right. They were ready for us. How could our attempt to rescue those captured go so wrong?”

  In a universal sign of resignation, Spirit Talker shrugged. He had warned the younger war chief, but decided now was not the time to remind him of that. “The Texians are growing in power, my young friend. We are not. Every day, wagons cross the rivers or ships enter their ports. All of them bring more white men. They will have our land, no matter what we do.”

  The heavy sigh which escaped Buffalo Hump’s mouth was loud. “If it hadn’t been for those pistols and rifles we would have won. Those pistols their horsemen carry have killed too many of our warriors.”

  Spirit Talker did the only thing which made sense. He nodded. After a moment, he said, “It isn’t just the weapons, though. Those who fight on foot are not the cowards we thought. I watched them stand against our attack. Our arrows killed or wounded many of them. But they stayed and fought. Each man worked with his friends, so that someone was always ready to shoot at us.”

  The war chief said, “But even their guns, they fired them fast, far faster than our men with muskets can fire.”

  The old peace chief brushed aside the comment, “Their new rifle is formidable, I agree. But don’t forget how each little group worked together, far more closely than anything I’ve ever seen before by those who fight on foot.”

  Both men fell silent as they urged their horses forward, moving to the northwest, back into the land of the Comancheria. How much longer they would be able to lay claim to the land was something Spirit Talker could no longer predict. Of the eighty warriors who had ridden with their band toward San Antonio, now only fifty were able to fight. Every other band was in a similar or worse situation. Behind them, more than a mile to their rear, Texas Rangers shadowed their retreat since the previous day. They were few in number, no more than a dozen. But even Buffalo Hump was reluctant to lead his warriors to what seemed likely to be certain death. The Texas Rangers’ mastery of the pistol with many shots had thoroughly changed the dynamic of warfare on the plains now.

  Fifty winters before, he recalled his first raid. He was more than a boy, but not yet a man. The Apache were terrified of the Comanche. It was good. Horses were easy to raid. The Spanish gave them horses and grains to keep the People from attacking. The Apache cowered in fear.

  “Yes,” Spirit Talker thought, “It had been good to be one of the People.”

  The empty saddles accompanying the band didn’t just represent remounts. No, they were a heavy reminder that one of every six warriors who rode to San Antonio was now dead. Before the latest war, the Comanche were to be feared. Now, the People feared the Texians.

  As if reading his mind, Buffalo Hump said, “The Texians hound us even now.” He pointed to the small cloud of dust behind them. “They attack our camps and take our women and children.”

  It was simply the truth, Spirit Talker thought. “They learned well from us.”

  As the sun kissed the western horizon, the two chiefs watched two horsemen approach their camp. Both wore the wide brimmed hats favored by the Rangers. At their hips were the pistols which caused the People so much grief. One of the riders was pale skinned; a white man. The other, darker complexioned. He was a Tejano. Waved forward, the two men approached, holding their hands in the sign of peace. The dark skinned one spoke in the language of the Spanish. Both chieftains understood.

  Spirit Talker called back, “What words do you have for the Penateka?”

  The Ranger replied, “Pass word to all the bands of the Penateka, riding the Comancheria. Texas seeks a treaty, an end to the violence which has taken too many of your people already.”

  Buffalo Hump grumbled at his side, “There are only two of them. Give me a chance and I’d have both their scalps hanging on my teepee.”

  Spirit Talker eyed the younger chief and saw only resignation. His were empty words.

  The Tejano Ranger continued, “Meet with us where the river we call the Bosque meets with the Brazos on the second full moon from today. There is a Ranger fort there, named Bee.�
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  The Ranger waited until he saw Spirit Talker’s nod of acknowledgement and then the two men wheeled around and galloped to the east.

  This scene was played out across the Comancheria a half dozen more times, as other war bands were given the same message.

  Chapter 14

  The hot July sun beat mercilessly down on Will’s head. His hat rested on the saddle horn as he looked through the telescoping spyglass at a Comanche war party approaching Fort Bee at a slow gait. Even their ponies looked tired and exhausted in the wilting heat. So far, nearly a dozen bands had arrived over the past twenty-four hours. Although the warriors’ countenance remained fierce and defiant, their chieftains, older and wiser, carried an air of resignation as they made camp at the confluence of the Brazos and Bosque Rivers.

  Watching over the gathering were the Texas Rangers. Company B normally had thirty men assigned to it, but in the week leading up to this gathering, Major Caldwell had arrived with an additional sixty from the other forts along the frontier. Additionally, Captain Seguin and his remaining company of cavalry trailed behind Will, as they escorted President Crockett to the meeting.

  Fort Bee was a typical frontier fort. Four wooden palisades surrounded an area which contained a small parade ground and a corral for the Rangers’ horses. Two blockhouses were at opposite corners of the fort, providing a three-hundred-sixty-degree field of fire. Along each side of the fort, a few cabins were built into the side of the interior walls. Also interspersed between the cabins were narrow wooden platforms, where riflemen could stand to fire through slits, cut in the wooden palisades.

  While Seguin’s cavalry bivouacked outside the fort’s walls, Will joined Crockett and Major Caldwell on the ground floor of the blockhouse nearest the gate. The room took up the entire bottom floor of the building. A rough wooden table had been set up along one wall, and a cot for the president along another. As Crockett settled into a chair, which creaked as he sat, he said, “Major, how are things along the frontier?”